


fear is the heart of love

by thesmallestacorn



Category: Pod Save America (RPF)
Genre: 2008 election nostalgia, 2016 US Presidential Election, Fluff and Angst, I'm Sorry, M/M, election angst, hillary clinton deserved better, i miss obama, vietreau sadness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-23
Updated: 2018-04-23
Packaged: 2019-04-26 23:49:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14413122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesmallestacorn/pseuds/thesmallestacorn
Summary: “Yeah, we were young and hopeful and not full of despair.”it's time for some election night feelings in this fandom





	fear is the heart of love

**Author's Note:**

> title from i will follow you into the dark by death cab for cutie
> 
> there are so many extremely talented writers in this fandom and I am not one of them, but thanks to everyone for inspiring me to actually write for once! I’m sorry for the pain this will inevitably cause but this was eating my brain and I was suffering so you gotta suffer too. We all have NYT election needle ptsd, it’s ok.  
> thanks to heather and jess for beta-ing

11/09/2016, 7:17am PST

 

Tommy wakes up to Jon’s hand tracing slow circles on his back, fingers trembling, chest shaking under him. Everything feels blurry, and he extracts his head from under Jon’s chin, tilting it to glance at the sunlight streaming through the window. Slowly, he begins to figure it out. Ok, they’re on Jon’s couch. He fell asleep on Jon. Did they hook up? No, they both have clothes on, and he doesn’t feel like he got laid. Although his face does feel slightly sticky, but no, that’s dried tears. He was crying, what was he crying about? Jon appears to be crying now, what the fuck happened? His head pounds. There’s a beer bottle on the floor, and another broken into pieces by the TV stand. Did they have a fight? What did they fight about? And then his eyes come to rest upon the crayons lying on Jon’s coffee table, printed maps of the United States next to them, half colored in and then abandoned, and it all comes rushing back. “Oh...fuck.” 

 

Everything is falling, falling under him, even as he pulls himself closer into Jon’s chest, willing, praying that this is still a dream, but no, it’s real, it’s real, and he wants to cry into the soft fabric of Jon’s old Bartlet For America shirt, the one Tommy bought him on the campaign trail in ‘08 for his birthday, but he can’t even bring himself to do that, all he feels is empty, nothing. 

Tommy pulls himself off of Jon, hand still on his chest, looking into his wet red eyes, tears clinging to the dark lashes. “It’s...it’s him, right?” 

His voice cracks, hoarse. Jon nods at him. “Fuck,” Tommy whispers, and collapses back into Jon’s arms. 

 

11/08/2016, 3:52pm PST

 

“Alright, we’ve got beer, bourbon, blank electoral college maps for each of us, chips, salsa, Jon’s laptop with FiveThirtyEight up, Tommy’s laptop with that New York Times needle up, and mine with the stuff for livestreaming. We’ve all got Twitter open, and we’ve got the TV to CNN. Houston, we are ready for liftoff!” Lovett grins at them excitedly, eyes crinkled, and Tommy swats his head.

“Ow, watch it, you dumb boatshoe.” 

“Stop being an idiot then.”

Jon starts laughing as he opens their beers, the caps coming off with a pop, passing one to each of them. 

“Alright guys, shut up. I’d like to start off the evening with a toast. To everyone who worked hard on this election. To the future Madam President, Hillary Clinton. To the breaking of glass ceilings. To good friends, I really couldn’t have gotten through this shitshow of an election. And to the end, thank FUCK, of this goddamn election. Cheers.”

“Cheers,” they echo, and Tommy clinks his bottle against the others’, smiling. It’s gonna be a good night. It’s not often that you get to see history being made, to have something your children will ask you if you remember. 

_ ‘Yeah, I remember when the first black president got elected. I worked for him. So did Uncle Jon, he wrote the president’s speech, have I ever showed you that? And I remember when the first woman president got elected. I was at Jon’s house with him and Uncle Lovett, it was great. Someday you’ll get to witness history, too.’ _

That kind of thing. 

Lovett pulls open the chip bag and shoves a handful into his mouth, crunching loudly. 

“You know we only have two bags of chips, and another 5 to 10 hours to go, right Lovett?”

“Shush, I’m stress eating. You should try it, Vietor. How are you so calm?” Lovett asks. 

“I may look calm, but inside I’m halfway to a panic attack. It’s that NSC training. Gotta have a poker face. Oh, the fate of American democracy is being decided in the next few hours, whatever, it’s cool.”

“You guys are worrying too much. She’s up in the polls, people seem pretty confident, Nate Silver’s got her at 71.4%, that’s pretty good.” Jon interjects.

“That’s too fucking low, Jon. You weren’t a math major, so you can’t even do addition, much less understand probability, but that’s not that high. Drumpf’s gonna win 3 in 10 times. You’re not worrying enough,” Lovett retorts.

“But look,” Jon adds, pulling his laptop towards himself and mousing over the various shades of blue in the upper Midwest. “Michigan, 78.9%. Wisconsin, 85%. And look, Pennsylvania, 77%. Even a one in three chance of winning Arizona. Arizona, Lovett! Stop worrying.”

Lovett stomps over to the shelf on the other side of the room, reaching up to grab Life from the stack of games. Tommy watches him amusedly as he stretches onto his tiptoes, fingers flailing. “Fuck, Tommy, get over here.”

Tommy heaves himself off the couch with an exaggerated sigh and trudges over to the shelf, pulling out the box and handing it to Lovett, who’s scowling at him. “Leave it to Jon to put things just out of reach for the shortest among us. This is discrimination, you know?” 

“Sure thing, honey.” He ruffles Lovett’s hair affectionately.

Jon is scrolling Twitter when Lovett slams down the box and pulls out the spinner. “If it lands on a one, a two, or a three? Trump wins. That’s how close it is.” He spins it angrily, and Tommy watches apprehensively as it slows, then stops on 2. 

“Shit” he murmurs. He glances over at Jon, who’s pursing his lips and looking at the floor with concern. 

“Yeah.” Lovett mutters. “Don’t get too cocky.” 

Tommy checks his watch, then flips on the sound on the TV. The music swells, and then Wolf Blitzer says they’ve got the first calls of the night. Indiana and Kentucky for Trump, Vermont for Clinton. 

“Big surprise” Jon laughs, reaching for a blue crayon to fill in Vermont. The maps were Tommy’s idea, he’s done them every election for as long as he can remember. He has a vague memory of his dad drawing a map of the United States on a big piece of paper and letting Tommy color it in, red for Reagan, blue for Mondale. It was fun, and he liked maps, so he asked again in 1988 if they could color in the maps, and his dad had drawn three, one for each Vietor child, which they colored as the adults watched the television, dad calling out the states to let the children know. It became a tradition, and he never stopped. 

On election night 2008 he had printed one map for him and one for Jon, because unlike his dad he can’t freehand a decent map (how the fuck did his dad do it, he never asked), and they colored in the states as Jon made last changes to Obama’s victory speech, cheering when each state was called, rushing into each other’s arms when California was called at 11pm Eastern, putting Obama over the top.

_ “Fuck, holy shit Jon, we did it, we did it, he’s gonna be president, president, Jon! President Obama, do you hear that, fuck.” Jon was crying into his shoulder, happy tears, tears of relief. It had been a long two years, so many sleepless nights, talking through lines in the stump speech with Jon, doing battle with reporters. Tommy ran his hand over Jon’s buzzed hair, feeling the tears pool in his own eyes, nothing but joy. He was here, with his best friend, who he loves, and all the work they put in to this campaign together paid off. They’d made history, the country had taken a step forward. He’d brought Jon a glass of champagne as he changed one last word in the speech (it was Obama’s speech, not his, after all) and had sent it off to the prompter, then he and Jon had danced backstage as “Your Love Keeps Lifting Me Higher” played.  _

_ He’d wrapped his hands around Jon’s slim waist, swaying back and forth to the music, grinning like an idiot. They’d danced closer and closer, Jon grinning up at him, until finally Tommy couldn’t stop himself and he’d bent down to press his lips to Jon’s, letting Jon’s fingers thread through his hair and pull him in. It was hard to kiss, because they couldn’t stop smiling, but they managed to do it anyway, tongues licking into each other’s mouths, Tommy drinking in Jon’s scent, how warm he was, how his back muscles twitched under Tommy’s hand. They’d only broken apart when a loud cheer informed them that the President-Elect was making his way to the stage. They watched the speech with their arms around each other’s waists, drinking champagne. That was the only time they ever kissed, and they never brought it up again, but all these years later he can still feel the warmth of Jon’s hand on his waist. It’s his fondest memory, dancing with Jon backstage in that election night glow. _

 

He framed the map he colored in on election night 2008 and hung it in his office. It’s still somewhere in his house. He wonders if Jon kept his. Jon does have a framed copy of the New York Times from the day after that election. ‘OBAMA. RACIAL BARRIER FALLS IN DECISIVE VICTORY.’

What’s tomorrow’s headline going to be? ‘CLINTON: FORMER FIRST LADY BREAKS FINAL GLASS CEILING’ or something. 

  
  


“Alright, since Kentucky’s been called, I think we should break into the bourbon.”

“Tommy, are you sure you’re not just saying that because you want a drink to calm your nerves?” Jon asks, raising his eyebrows knowingly. 

“Beer is just not cutting it at this point, ok?”

“Why haven’t they called Florida?” Lovett yells. 

“Because it’s…” Tommy checks his watch again. “7:14 Eastern, and the polls closed there literally fourteen minutes ago, and Florida is a swing state.”  
“Every state in the nation should be called for Hillary at this point, if the world were normal. I seriously cannot believe that Donald fucking Trump has a chance of winning. DONALD TRUMP! The guy from the fucking apprentice? President! What the FUCK!” 

“Lovett, I agree with you, but it doesn’t change the fact that Florida is a swing state and is not gonna be called for another couple hours,” Tommy responds in an even tone, trying to calm him down. 

“I fucking hate election night.”

“Lovett, twenty minutes ago you said you loved election night.” Jon points out.

“That was before CNN refused to call Florida, and the entire election.”

“Here, have a bourbon, it’ll help.” Tommy pours a glass for him, then himself, downing it in one gulp. 

A few minutes later, West Virginia is called for Trump, and Tommy reaches for the red crayon. It’s gonna be a long night.

 

11/08/2016, 7:06pm PST

 

Tommy finishes the last piece of kung pao chicken and sticks the chopsticks back in the takeout container, taking another sip of beer. He’s filled out more states on his map, they did a livestream, they ate dinner, he’s had two, or maybe three drinks, he can’t remember. 

“This shit is too fucking close, Tommy” Jon murmurs. 

“Yeah, it is.” Tommy replies, draping his arm around the back of the couch and letting his hand come to rest on Jon’s shoulder, thumb rubbing back and forth across the muscle there, stomach flipping. 

“Why haven’t they called Florida, Tommy. Or Colorado? Or Virginia? Fuck, fuck, they gotta give me something!” Tommy can hear the edge in his voice, he sounds worried, and Tommy just wants to pull him into his chest and hold him there, whisper that it’s all going to be ok.

Lovett is swearing under his breath. He needs something to do, something that’s not just sitting here waiting, waiting for the pundits to tell them it’s all going to be ok, waiting for the pundits to tell them that the world is crashing around their heads. 

“I’m gonna go buy some more snacks, and maybe another bottle of bourbon or something. Anything you guys want?” 

“Nah, thanks Tommy” replies Jon, hitting refresh on the New York Times, as if he can will the needle towards the blue even though it’s on auto refresh. 

“Jon, you gotta stop looking at that thing, it’s gonna give you a heart attack and you are far too young to die. Wouldn’t that be a tragedy? ‘Offensively Handsome Obama Speechwriter Dead From Election Stress Induced Heart Attack at 35.’”

It’s the first time Jon’s laughed in a few hours, even though Lovett’s been cracking jokes all evening in a vain attempt to diffuse the tension. 

“I can’t stop looking at it, this shit is like heroin.”

“Exactly, just like heroin, it’s gonna kill you.”

“Shut up, Lovett. Let me live in peace.”

Tommy leaves them there, grabbing his wallet off the table and heading out the door into the warm evening. It had been unseasonably hot that day, and the lingering heat makes everything feel slow and sleepy, though that might just be that it’s weirdly quiet. Everyone is inside, glued to their TVs, fearing the worst. He can feel the apprehension in the air.  They don’t really need more snacks, but he needs something to do, and he needs some fresh air, and a minute away from Wolf Blitzer yelling about turnout in Broward County. Are there enough votes in Miami and the suburbs to counteract the high numbers in Northern Florida? Let’s draw some circles on this board and find out! Exit polls! We don’t know anything new but we’re gonna play the graphics to make it seem like we do! Whatever. He can’t think right now. 

He walks the ten minutes to the convenience store, grabbing a thing of cheez-its and another bottle of bourbon, and then a pack of cigarettes and a cheap lighter on impulse. When he gets outside he lights one, leaning against a tree, inhaling the smoke deep into his lungs, coughing a little, tapping the cigarette with his long, sweaty fingers. It’s been a while, which makes sense, because he can’t remember the last time he was this stressed, but it was definitely while he was in the White House. Actually, no, he can remember, it was the night of the Bin Laden raid. 

_ He’d been in the Sit Room, working on drafting talking points, making sure he got all the details of the raid right. How many SEALs? Had they told the Pakistanis? When were they going to know if it worked? Don’t tell anyone yet. They’d sat there, waiting. He remembers Obama drumming his fingers nervously on the table, watching the screens before pulling a pack of cigarettes out of his suit pocket and lighting one. “I’m the President, Vietor, which means that although I have to do things like oversee dangerous military operations going after the world’s most wanted terrorist, I also can smoke wherever I want, which I think is a pretty fair trade.” Tommy laughed.  _

_ “Do you smoke, Vietor?”  _

_ “Not much, sir, but I’ll still have one occasionally. When I’m stressed, you know.” _

_ “If I followed that rule I’d be chain smoking all day, everyday. Do you want one?”  _

_ “Sure, thank you, sir.” _

_He and Obama had sat and smoked together, scribbling notes while the National Security Advisor explained some more details of the raid. It’s one of his better memories from the White House. As stressful as it all was, he got to be there while the raid happened, be one of the first people on the planet to know that Bin Laden was finally dead, and got to share a moment with a president he loved very much._ _Maybe tonight will turn out fine too_. 

He stubs out the cigarette and lights another as he walks back toward Jon’s house, taking a moment to sit on the porch and finish the cigarette before heading back inside. “I’ve got cheez-its and more booze.”

“Thanks.”  


“Shit, they called Ohio?” Tommy had intentionally left his phone at the house.

“Yeah. I was wrong about that one. But they also called Virginia and Colorado, we got those.” Jon looks him up and down, clearly trying to see how worried Tommy looks. 

“Thank fuck.” Tommy reaches down to color in those states, along with Missouri and New Mexico. “They still haven’t called Florida or North Carolina?”

“Nope.” Lovett replies, staring darkly into his drink. 

Jon sniffs the air loudly. “Wait, Tommy, were you smoking?”

“Yeah, I bought some cigarettes and had a couple. I’m very stressed, okay?” Tommy cracks his knuckles, annoyed at their concern.

“Don’t let it become a habit,” Jon says, rubbing his shoulder affectionately. 

“I haven’t smoked regularly since I was 19, I think I’ll be okay. Do you have any gum, Jon?”

Jon goes to get him some gum and he opens another beer, taking a few deep breaths. His stomach is jumping nervously, as if to warn him that things are about to go very, very badly. “Stop that,” he grumbles. “Wait and see, wait and see.”

 

11/08/2016, 8:23 PST

 

Florida’s looking worse and worse and so is Jon. He’s been nervously running his fingers through his hair for hours now, and it’s tangled and sticking out in twelve different directions. It’s actually quite cute. Jon could grow a mohawk and he’d probably still be hot. Well, maybe not that far, but Tommy fell for him even with that ridiculously awful buzzcut, so there you go. 

Lovett is curled up into a ball on the end of the couch, head on his knees. “You guys, I think I’m gonna go. I want to call Ronan, you know. Even though he’s not here, I want...I need to be...I need to be with him right now, I think.”

“Ok, buddy. Do you want to take any of this beer or something?”

“No, I’m good. Thanks, though. I’ll, uh, I’ll call when we know something. Or tomorrow. I don’t know.” Lovett looks small and scared, and he looks young, almost childlike. Tommy pulls him into a tight hug, burying his face in Lovett’s curls. “It’ll be ok, alright? Tell Ronan I said hi.”

“Yeah, uh, I will, thanks.”

Jon gives him a hug too before opening the door for him. 

“Fuck.” Jon whispers, and Tommy hugs him too, glancing at the needle. 76% for Trump. Shit. He lets Jon breathe into his shoulder, slow and steady, rubbing up and down his back. He moves them over to the couch, where he lays back and lets Jon curl up against him. Human contact is good, it’s centering him, stopping him from going into a total spiral of despair. 

“There’s still time, we’ve still got Pennsylvania and Wisconsin and Michigan and Nevada, even if Florida goes the wrong way.” It’s as much for him as for Jon, to delude himself into thinking that it can still be fine. Which, technically it can. But he’s had a sinking feeling in his stomach for the last hour or two. The Senate’s gone too, at this point. Fuck. They sit in silence for a few minutes, Tommy trying to block out everything, just focus on the way Jon feels against him. It’s funny, really. Usually he tries not to think about Jon in that way, tries to ignore his feelings for him. It comes naturally at this point, after all, he’s been doing it for the better part of eleven years. But now he welcomes the distraction, admiring Jon’s strong, slightly scruffy jawline, the line of his collarbones sticking out from his thin shirt, his long, gorgeous neck. 

Tommy’s slightly hard, and he pulls over a blanket to hide it, remembering the way it had felt to have Jon’s lips under his, the mark Jon had left under Tommy’s left ear. It’s almost enough to forget about reality for a few minutes, but then he hears the “we’re making a call, get ready, motherfuckers” music from the TV, and, shit, fuck,  _ shit _ , they’re calling Florida. He knew it was coming, and it’s not over yet, but god, it feels like the end. He sinks into the couch, head swirling with alcohol and nicotine and fear, feeling the tears spring into his eyes. Jon begins to cry, long, choked sobs, then gets up to go into another room. Tommy wants to follow him, but he can’t even bring himself to get off the couch. His legs don’t work anymore. 

He doesn’t know what this emotion is. Fear, despair, anger. How could this happen? How did it come to this? Logically, he knows the answer to that; it’s voters’ anger at the state of the country and how things are changing, it’s racism, and sexism, and those damn emails, and the media coverage, and whatever the fuck that was with Russia, and the stupid fucking electoral college. But still.  _ She deserved better _ , he thinks angrily. This country is a piece of shit. 

“Piece of SHIT!” Tommy yells, throwing his empty beer bottle at the TV stand. It shatters loudly, pieces falling to the floor. “Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he whispers, and starts to cry. He’s broken, too. 

He hears Jon rush back from his room. “Hey, you ok? I heard a noise.”  
“Oh, yeah, sorry, I, uh, threw that.” Tommy mutters, wiping the tears from his face. 

“Oh. Ok,” Jon replies quietly, fidgeting with whatever’s in his hand. Tommy’s vision is blurry, he can’t see what it is. 

Tommy pats the couch next to him and Jon sits back down, hesitantly, as if worried Tommy’s going to take it out on him next, but eventually he relaxes into Tommy’s arms, letting himself be held. Tommy pours another drink, fuck it, nothing matters at this point, and he sips it silently as Jon starts whispering, playing with the thing in his hand. 

“Is that, wait, is that a rosary?”  
“Um, yeah. I just...I didn’t...I dug it out of the back of my drawer, I don’t know, I just...wasn’t sure what else to do.”

“Yeah, of course. Sorry, you can, uh, keep doing what you were doing. Don’t mind me.”   
Jon goes back to the beads, fingers working.  _ Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name _ . Tommy watching his long fingers as they move expertly down the chain. It’s almost like watching him play the piano. His fingers move with the same quickness and agility, like he’s done this a million times before and doesn’t even have to think. He listens to Jon whisper the words of the prayer, his eyes tight shut, tears dripping down his cheeks. It’s tragic, heartwrenching to look at. 

He kisses the top of Jon’s head, willing everything to be okay. Jon’s breathing seems to be slowing down, and he tries to match his breaths to Jon’s, to absorb Jon’s slightly calmer state. The transitive property, or whatever. He’ll have to ask Lovett. He finds himself whispering the words with Jon. It’s not that he’s religious or anything, in fact, he’s not sure that Jon is either, but he doesn’t know what else to do, and he likes that they’re doing it together. It’s a reminder that there’s someone else to face this with, the same man he’s faced everything with for a decade, and that’s not going away. And hey, maybe God is listening. 

“ _ Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.” _ His words don’t match Jon’s here. “Dude, it’s trespasses, isn’t it?”

“There’re different versions. I learned ‘forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors.’”

“Hm. I never knew that. I didn’t even realize I still remember this though, it’s been a while since I’ve been to church,” Tommy says.

“Yeah, me too.” Jon cracks half a smile and settles back against Tommy’s chest, resting there for a while before continuing with his rosary. Tommy turns the TV off. They’ll face this in the morning. He says a few more Lord’s Prayers with Jon (skipping the Hail Mary’s, he never learned that one) before letting himself drift off, listening to the low murmur of Jon praying and the vibrations of his voice against Tommy’s chest.

  
  


11/09/2016, 7:43 am PST

 

“Alright, as much as I want to stay here and cuddle with you on this couch and never venture out into the world again, I think we gotta get up and go face the music.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” Jon sighs, dropping his head against Tommy’s chest. Tommy pulls him tight into himself, warm, just for one more minute. 

“Fuck, I’m hungover as shit”

“I’ll go get you some aspirin and some water. And I’ll get a broom to clean up the glass. I’ll be right back, Tom.”

Tommy lets Jon’s fingers slip through his own as Jon extracts himself from Tommy’s grip. He starts cleaning up, gathering beer bottles and chip bags, reality washing over him. President Trump. God, what a fucking nightmare. “Honestly, we’ll be lucky if we’re not in World War III by the end of 2017.”

“Really, you think so?” Jon replies, handing him the pill. Tommy swallows it dry. 

“Yeah. Fuck, dude, he’s  _ nuts _ . He’s gonna have the fucking nukes.”

“God, we are so screwed.”

“And we’re two white guys, too. We’re relatively less screwed.”

“Yep.” Jon starts sweeping up the glass on the floor. 

“So, uh, did she concede?”

“Yeah.” Jon swallows around the word.

“Have you watched it?” Tommy asks, sipping his water.

“No, but I saw a clip of it on Twitter. Fuck, I was crying all over again. That’s what I was watching when you woke up.”

“Yeah?” 

“What’d she say, hold on, let me find it.” Jon reaches for his phone and pulls up Twitter. Tommy puts in the one earbud Jon offers him, leaning close into him to see. 

_ “Now, I -- I know -- I know we have still not shattered that highest and hardest glass ceiling, but someday someone will and hopefully sooner than we might think right now. And -- and to all the little girls who are watching this, never doubt that you are valuable and powerful and deserving of every chance and opportunity in the world to pursue and achieve your own dreams.” _

Tommy wipes his eyes. “Fuck, Jon, we fucked up so badly.”

“Yeah, we did.”

They eat some cereal and shower. Tommy borrows a clean shirt from Jon, his has beer on it. It’s too tight in the chest but he doesn’t care. They give Lovett a call, and Lovett informs them that respectfully, he will NOT be leaving the house for the next 4-6 months. Or possibly years. 

“Well, we gotta record a pod at some point today.”

“Oh, shit, yeah. Well, let me know and I will haul my sad gay ass to the studio so we can mourn the death of decency, America, and hope.”

“Ok, Lovett. Come over if you feel like it.”

 

They put on some music, some sad playlist that Jon found on Spotify, and decide to spend the next hour cleaning Jon’s house. Cleaning is cathartic, in a way. It reminds Tommy that he still has some semblance of control, even if the world is going to shit.

_ I wish I could do this to the entire country _ , he thinks, scrubbing at a tough spot on the counter. He comes up behind Jon and wraps his arms around Jon’s waist, holding him against himself, remembering that he’s still there. Jon will always be there. 

They dance to a few of the songs, rocking softly back and forth, moving closer together. Tommy reaches up to wipe a tear from the corner of Jon’s eye, holding his face lightly. “I’m here, ok? I’ll always be here, Jon.” 

Jon nods and smiles up at him. “I wouldn’t want you anywhere else.”

They sway to the music a little more.  _ This is good _ , Tommy thinks. It’s not that he’s forgotten what’s happened, it’s just that it seems slightly more manageable with Jon. “I love you so much, you know,” he murmurs into Jon’s ear. 

“Yeah, I do.”

“Good”

“I love you too, you know”

“Good.”

Tommy presses his lips to Jon’s. They’re soft underneath his, and he drinks it in, the way Jon’s hand moves up into his hair, exactly as it did eight years ago, the way his lips part to let Tommy in, tongue licking lightly into his mouth, warm and solid in his arms. They dance a little more, kissing. 

“I don’t know, I kinda liked last time better,” Jon jokes, and Tommy manages to crack a smile. 

“Yeah, we were young and hopeful and not full of despair.”  
“This is still nice though.”

“Yeah, it is,” Tommy replies, and kisses him again. 

“We’ll be okay, Tommy.”

“Yeah, Jon, we will.”

  
_ You and me we've seen everything to see _

_ From Bangkok to Calgary and the soles of your shoes _

_ Are all worn down _

_ The time for sleep is now _

_ But it's nothing to cry about _

_ 'Cause we'll hold each other soon in the blackest of rooms _

**Author's Note:**

> Because I always feel compelled to make my things as factually accurate as possible (I even looked up the weather for LA on November 8th. It was unusually hot! 90 degrees!):
> 
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Barack_Obama_election_victory_speech,_2008 (they did play Your Love Keeps Lifting Me Higher at the Grant Park Rally, I looked it up)  
> https://projects.fivethirtyeight.com/2016-election-forecast/ (those numbers are real, even the 85% in Wisconsin. Damn you, Nate Silver.)  
> https://projects.newsday.com/nation/trump-clinton-relive-election-night-2016/ (for timing purposes)  
> https://uselectionatlas.org/INFORMATION/ARTICLES/ElectionNight2016/pe2016elecnighttime.php (More timing)  
> https://www.cnn.com/2016/11/09/politics/hillary-clinton-concession-speech/index.html (text of Hillary’s concession speech)
> 
> And if you really want to be sad, watch Hillary Clinton read a portion of her victory speech (video i took at an event of hers i went to, don’t mind me crying in the background) https://drive.google.com/open?id=1zGVi8C8SxFiAQoYvo2Lcqi7DjMt_jm0o
> 
> thanks for reading <3


End file.
